The only service I receive at Big Box Shoes comes from the teenage cashiers, chewing gum and likely unable to give change without a register. The managers? They seem to be dodging any inquiries from parents like me who might actually have questions. My kids gravitate toward shoes that are ridiculously bright, the fastest designs, or whatever they think their friends will be sporting. I end up boxing up the shoes myself and taking them to checkout, where I reluctantly finalize the purchase.
This whole ordeal frustrates me because I fondly recall back-to-school shoe shopping as a cherished experience. In the ’80s, my grandparents would take us to Baxter’s Shoe Emporium—a good hour’s drive from our small town. There, Mr. Baxter had been selling shoes since the end of World War II. He had a team of friendly clerks he personally trained, who expertly utilized the shoe sizer, a shiny, peculiar device with sliding levers to ensure a perfect fit.
These clerks genuinely cared about what we were looking forward to in the upcoming school year: Were we excited about gym class? They would eagerly help us find the latest athletic shoes and encourage us to try them on. Often, Mr. Baxter himself would assist, casually perched on one of the store’s stools with a rubber-tread ramp in front. His gray hair and warm smile made him feel like a beloved uncle. He would tie our shoes without looking, engaging us in conversation. “How do they feel? Go ahead and walk around a bit.”
Choosing shoes took about an hour for both my sister and me, but it was a delightful hour. I still remember one particular visit when I left with a pair of Lone Ranger running shoes—sleek silver with the hero’s face on each side. The cursive blue lettering around the opening proclaimed the show’s name, which had seen a resurgence during the Reagan years. I ran so fast in those shoes that the Lone Ranger’s face slowly wore away, leaving just a masked silhouette.
Like the Lone Ranger, stores like Baxter’s have vanished where I live. My boys will never experience the joy of a friendly salesman who lingers in their memories, nor will they remember the cool slide of the shoe sizer against their socked feet. The shoes we buy will likely be worn out by December, just in time for holiday sales to offer replacements. Yet, a part of me clings to this tradition—back-to-school shoe shopping is a rite that should persist, even amidst questionable customer service.
I passed by the location where Baxter’s used to stand just a few weeks ago. It’s now a hair salon, or at least I think so. The big front windows displayed poorly painted images of women’s hairstyles, mixed with posters for local concerts and maybe even boxing matches. One sign caught my eye, advertising “palm readings,” leaving me unsure about what they were truly offering. I didn’t venture inside.
In the grand scheme of things, shoes may seem trivial compared to the pressing educational issues of today. With Common Core, standardized testing, and teacher certification making headlines, my sons’ shoe choices should probably be less significant in my thoughts. However, I can’t shake the memory of a time and place where a genuine connection mattered more than a mere transaction. The conversations flowed, the scent of quality leather filled the air, and we left with a sense of pride and satisfaction. So, here’s to fondly remembering Baxter’s and similar establishments. The bittersweet reality of another modern back-to-school shopping season has arrived. Hi-ho, Silver, away.
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Summary
This reflection recalls the nostalgic experience of shoe shopping in the past, contrasting it with today’s impersonal retail encounters. It emphasizes the cherished memories tied to local stores and the meaningful connections formed during shopping trips, all while acknowledging the shift in priorities in modern education.